His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. You know you do, Annabel. ‘Have you any more pretty toys like that knife about you?’ ‘The girl’s a regular arsenal,’ Hilary snapped, giving up into his senior’s hand the nasty little weapon he had snatched. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast.
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